


The Undesired Princess & the Enchanted Bunny: Being the First Tale of the Coin, the Sword and the Medallion

by LooNEY_DAC



Series: The Coin [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, POV First Person, The Epic Begins!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 21:13:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10317092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LooNEY_DAC/pseuds/LooNEY_DAC





	1. I: How It Began

So, my Dad said I should write this down while it was all fresh in my mind. I don’t think he believes me about what happened, and, to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t believe me either, were I standing in his shoes. I mean, it’s all so weird that it could easily qualify for Poppy Dream of the Century, but every last bit of it actually happened. I know it did. I know it.

And just where should I begin? Should I start with that last battle of wits and try to, you know, work backwards? Or would the fight with the spooks in the woods be a better starting point? Maybe I should just stick to how it happened to me, without any fancy flashbacks or whatever.

Anyway, Dad told me to get it all down on paper, so here goes.

It all started one day last month when we were visiting my Mom’s brother, who I call “Uncle Fixit”. I tried calling him “Uncle Gadget” a few times, but that always annoyed him for some reason. Anyway, Mom’s three other sisters were visiting from clear over on the other side of the country, so they, my uncle and my Dad were all sitting around talking. And talking. And talking.

On the way to Uncle Fixit’s, I had been reading from a collection of Russian fairy tales one of my aunts had given me, which was a great mistake on my parents’ part. I mean, how could I sit still and listen quietly to tales of the various ailments advancing age was bringing the adults when visions of flying ships and lost kingdoms and wardrobes filled with devil ravens waiting to peck your eyes out filled my mind?

Somehow, I managed to stay in my seat, only wriggling occasionally, but it was hard. My mind kept going back to the book, and, despite all the advice I’d ever received about being careful of what you wished for, as it may well be granted to you, as the adults’ conversation floated over and around me, I wished with all my heart that I could be like the heroes in the old fairy tales (but not, you know, doomed to a horrible fate; these were Russian fairy tales I’d been reading, after all).

Eventually, I managed to get myself excused so that I could use the bathroom, which for once I hoped would take quite some time. “Don’t forget to stop by the Garage on your way back,” Uncle Fixit said, his ever-so-casual tone hinting at all kinds of nifty things about as subtly as a baseball crashing through a window.

The Garage. I had always been nearly equally afraid of and fascinated by it. More than five times the size of its namesake at home, the Garage was a dusty warren of mysterious, looming things covered over with oil-stained sheets, shelves and racks filled with oddly shaped bits of metal, wood, glass and plastic, and many, many dimly lit corners perfect for a young boy to hide himself away in. Every once in a great while, though, Uncle Fixit would lead me through the maze and up a secret flight of stairs to his workshop, where he’d wave his hands over a bunch of wires and light bulbs and gears and rubber belts spread over the main bench and some wondrous thing would take form, like a voice-controlled automaton (named Otto Maton, naturally).

Well, the bathroom could wait with Uncle Fixit hinting like that. Scampering directly to the Garage, I paused by the half-open door, swallowed my heart back down my throat, and went in.

One step, another step, and then I was all the way inside, the door swinging back to half-open behind me (“Never leave yourself without a fire escape route, kid. You’ll always regret it”) as I slowly moved forward.

At the first turning, I found the treasure Uncle Fixit had left for me: a pile of brightly polished coins, just waiting to be spun. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always loved to set coins to spinning, and here was a whole pile of multicolored metal disks just begging to be spun.

I picked up a silvery nickel-sized Coin, studying one heavily weathered face after the other, and wondered whence it had come. The scratches, dings and even gouges it bore spoke of long, rough usage during years that brought it across mountains and oceans, deserts and plains, until now, when I held it. How many others had held it thus? How many lives had it passed through, for good or ill?

The world stopped as I sent the Coin off with a practiced flick of thumb and forefinger. Then, as it weaved and wobbled, so the world began to wobble and spin, drawing up into a massive gray swirl that swallowed my surroundings.

“Mathetheram thamadrican alamhegred, perethemadrican halicanierom palamanan...”

In the middle of the vertiginously swirling mass, there was an old man, dressed in a really weird combination of a toga and chain mail and plate armor. He was chanting the incomprehensible stuff I partially transcribed up there over and over, until it changed mid-chant.

“...that he may understand and communicate well with your people of the Realm, that with wisdom he may go amongst them, that he may Prove himself worthy to assume the role of their Protector...”

For a fleeting, but somehow timeless, moment, our eyes met, his basilisk gaze searching mine in a way that seemed to reach into the depths of my soul; then, with a nod, he gestured at me and vanished. Well, that was just odd.

I closed my eyes as my stomach protested, and if I hadn’t been on my knees already, I would have fallen to them. The wobbling slowly abated, and eventually I carefully got to my feet before opening my eyes again, only to find myself looking a girl in the face.

It wasn't a bad face, for that of a girl, except that currently it was twisted into a sneer--the kind of sneer that had you sniffing yourself to ensure your clothes were still clean. The slight, not-quite-plain girl facing me with disdainful nose raised gave off the aura of being a fairy-tale princess--only, the spoiled, selfish and often wicked false princess that existed solely to get her comeuppance from the True Prince in the end. Not that she was ugly; while, as I mentioned before, she wasn’t beautiful, nothing about her features quite put her into the ugly side of the column.

“The tardiness of your advent in this Realm has been of great discouragement to my father and our people, and hence most vexatious to me, as well.” This non sequitur of an acid-edged reprobation was delivered in a tone that somehow perfectly blended snootiness and ice. I blinked repeatedly in confusion, but no clarification was forthcoming. She seemed quite content to leave me befuddled.

Eventually, I glanced away, and discovered that we were standing in what could only be called a classic hovel. It had all the hallmarks: badly daubed walls in dingy brown, dirt floors, a pervasive aura of filth aided by various disgusting odors, a small, barely translucent window in one wall, and thatch overhead. The only way out was currently blocked by an ill-hung door made of rough 1x6 boards that were held together solely by giant, clumsy-looking hinges.

“Your propensity for pointless ruminations at the expense of prompt and effective action is most irksome.” The richly sarcastic tones brought my gaze back to the girl.

With all the dignity I could muster, I replied, my tone as frosty as hers, “The purpose of my ruminations is to ensure the effectiveness of any actions I do undertake, not that you would comprehend such a method for coming to decisions.”

Wait, was that me spouting such la-di-da erudition? I never spoke that way, even if I was quoting someone. I barely speak at all, truth be told, because I tend to stutter, especially when I’m excited or passionate about something; at those times, I essentially lapse into incomprehensibility. Fortunately, writing doesn’t allow for stammering. But, boy, was that last mouthful ever weenified!

Her retort was not slow in coming. “Fine words those, but useless without action to prove them.” She swung the door open, as though using it for punctuation. The bright light of a summer day shone in, temporarily blinding me, but with the light came a wonderfully fresh, evergreen forest-y smell to help nullify the more noxious aromas around me. My nose silently gave thanks.

The girl paused in the doorway, her freckled face scrunched into a squint from the glare reflecting from the rear wall as she looked back at me. In a much more hesitant and uncertain tone than she’d used before, she asked, “Over a month has come and gone since the Pretender seized the throne, and each day since has been worse than that before it. Did--did the cause of your delay in coming to our aid stem from some fault of ours? Were we too arrogant in presuming that, now that a Protector had been chosen and proven, that our Realm must no longer suffer as it has?”

For the first time, I felt some sympathy for this anonymous girl. “I cannot answer questions to which I don’t know the answers. I did not even know I was to be sent here, nor am I certain of how you expect me to aid you, but I shall do whatever I am able to do, if it will help.” Then I grinned wryly, adding, “It may also be worthy of note that the advent of a person or people with a certain ability usually heralds a pressing need for the ability in the near future. Thus, if a Protector is come, your Realm will be in need of greater protection.” Well, that was kinda what I meant to say. This was so weird. It was like I could only say stuff the way it came out, not the way I really wanted to say it.

She made another face at me. “Such might be inferred by the ease with which the Pretender made us all his slaves.” Further elucidating, she explained how, at the height of the Midsummer’s Feast, this Pretender guy had suddenly magicked himself into the middle of the Great Hall in the King’s Castle, immediately using his diabolical powers to essentially zombify everyone present save the Royal Family. The Midsummer Feast was the climax of a week of celebration, and this year’s had been particularly boisterous and blah blah blah BLAH blah blah blah...

I let her run on another five minutes by the watch Uncle Fixit had given me before interrupting. “Much as I dislike to interrupt your effortlessly flowing magniloquence, I am impelled to point out that the sun is now perceptibly lower than it was upon my arrival. Was it your plan that we should wait here until the dark of night before making our move on this Pretender?”

OK, was there some kind of Civil War diarist using me as his ventriloquist’s dummy? ‘Effortlessly flowing magniloquence’? Give me a break!

If looks could kill, anyone reading this would drop dead from the penumbral (hey, I can use big words, too, but never when talking to people) aura of the glare she gave me. Finally, she said through tightly clenched teeth, “If you would so please as to follow me,” and walked outside.

Something was terribly wrong with how I was speaking, and this girl seemed to be the key to finding out what, why, and how to make it stop. All unknowing of what would inevitably follow, I hastened after her...

TO BE CONTINUED


	2. II: The Road to Restoration

As unlikely as it might seem, the hovel we emerged from was part of a cluster of such--and yet, they were all surprisingly well kept. Apparently, they were part of a (normally) busy and respectable inn known as the Hand-Spread Stop, after the crossroads it lay on that bore a strange resemblance to an outstretched hand.

All around the clearing the inn huddled in grew woods, woods and, just for a change, still more woods. The so-called roads themselves were unpaved and unkempt paths of dirt notable mostly for the ruts of which they were mostly constituted. It vaguely resembled some of the National Parks in which my family had vacationed in the Pacific Northwest a few years back, but much wilder.

The girl laid an info dump on me as soon as we were out of the hovel, after asking me a few very odd questions and stating, “The Pretender must have laid a charm to block your memories of us, as would be prudent of him in a ward against his greatest foe.” She went on to explain that she was, as I had surmised, a princess, Alamsta by name, middle daughter of His Majesty Alamanast All-Highest (etc, etc), the Twelfth to bear that name since the Founding of the Realm (etc, etc).

Alamanast was the culmination of a dynasty that had ruled the Realm for as long as there had been a Realm to rule. The Pretender planned to supplant this rule with his own, which he also planned to have last forever, through pacts with the Lords of Death that would grant him eternal life. Against this powerhouse of magic and ruthless evil stood only Alamsta (we’ll get to her sisters shortly) and her father, and now I joined them. Yay.

Other things that Alamsta told me, while unsavory, were not unexpected. If there was an opportunity to do evil unto someone, the Pretender would unhesitatingly avail himself of it. Part and parcel of this was his insistence on using Alamsta as his chief gofer and courier, tainting her with the evils he thrust upon the Realm while humiliating her with servility and powerlessness. And he made her dress in what was essentially a burlap sack and woolen undergarments so that she was under constant low-level torture at all times.

After the Expository Exposition of Magniloquence monologue from Alamsta, we began walking up the pathway known as the Ring Finger Way in more-or-less stoic silence. And it was up rather than down, as the track became surprisingly steep a few times.

The woods closed in overhead as we walked on, encasing us in a tunnel of gloom that ever so gradually grew darker and creepier. Before I knew it, we were in a scene out of a Bergman film, right down to the ominously cawing crows lurking amongst the branches.

I was about to mention this to Alamsta, but before I could put together one of those extremely precise sentences used in this place, she shushed me with a quick wave of one hand.

“The Pretender has placed the woods under an evil enchantment,” she whispered, her face blanching with horror.

“A most astute observation, O Princess Alamsta.” The speaker was a barely discernible cloud of white mist off to one side of the narrow pathway. “He also brought us into this newly desecrated place that we might attend to any newly arriving foes of his, like this boy.” As it spoke, its shape mixed together and pulled apart, finally reforming into a nightmarishly thin man with the head, or more correctly the skull of a jackal.

“Come, Fearblade! Come, Doomflail! On to the attack, fellow spooks!” At its cries, two more clouds in monstrous form pulled themselves out of the thin mist and started towards us.

They missed on their first pass, but only due to some fancy last-second dodging on our part. Branches fell from the trees, scored through by the spooks’ razor-sharp talons in our stead.

The spooks dove at us again, screeching in wrath. I raised my left arm to protect my sensitive eyes, and when my hand passed into my gaze, there was what seemed to be an ornately carved wooden short sword clenched in it. Everything froze in place, and a booming basso profundo bellowed out at me.

‘The Power of the Sword is that of Righteous Judgement. It may only be swung against those who are unrepentantly Evil.’ There was something naggingly familiar about that voice, but I just couldn’t put my finger on what it was, yet. I mean, there were other things on my mind.

The world jolted into motion again, so I flailed the Sword in the general direction of the nearest spook. Screaming again, but this time in despair, the spook flew apart when the Sword swept through it, like a broom through old cobwebs.

The Sword was as light as though I held nothing at all, and fit into my hands as though the grips had been deliberately fitted for me personally. This made it ridiculously easy for me to dice the other two spooks: I just barely waved the Sword in their vicinity, completely without any real technique of swordplay, and they essentially committed seppuku against the blade.

After the spooks were dispatched came the spork attack. I wish that last sentence were a joke, but it wasn’t. A great horde of wooden cutlery in assorted styles and sizes, but all sporks, moving on its own came clanking down the trail towards us.

Now, I know that under ordinary circumstances the phrase “spork attack” would have me wondering about the sobriety of the speaker, but, believe it or not, the sporks were one of the least outlandish parts of that day's events.

At any rate, I brandished the Sword over my head, not completely sure I hadn’t passed out in Uncle Fixit’s living room, with this nightmare the result, and a flash of light leapt from the blade to the advancing masses. In another second, the entire crowd of sporks was ablaze, and a moment after that, they were all ash trails across the untouched woodland floor.

I was holding a magic sword that killed phantoms and spat fire at enchanted cutlery. All righty then.

Alamsta looked at me, her eyes huge. “You bear the Sword!”

As soon as she said it, the Sword vanished from my hand as silently as it had appeared in the first place. Any turn-your-hair-blue curses, I kept to myself, though it was a struggle.

“Where lies the home of your fathers, the Royal Castle?” I asked of Alamsta. “I fear, should it be yet far off, that the Darkness opposing us might yet prevail.”

Alamsta crossed her arms. “Some measure of faith in the weapons with which you’ve been gifted would not come amiss. We stand but yards from the wood’s edge, and safety. Were it otherwise, do not doubt that the Sword would remain in your hand even now.”

I suddenly noticed the river that curved conveniently near our pathway, but Alamsta hurried off before I could say anything, and I certainly wasn’t going to lag behind, all alone, after what had just happened. So off I scurried after her, out of the woods. Out of the frying pan might have been more accurate...

TO BE CONTINUED


	3. III: Within the Castle

My first thought when I saw the Royal Castle was a fairly simple, ‘Wow’. It was as though someone had taken everything I loved most about castles, fortresses, chateaux, etc, and blended them together in perfect harmony to form the largest, most intimidating, and yet most beautiful castle I ever had, would, or even could see.

Regretfully taking my eyes from the castle, I glanced at Alamsta, who was looking at it with a mix of pride and pain. Then she must have sensed me looking at her, because she pulled her annoyance back on like a cloak and snapped, “When we arrive at the gatehouse, we will be questioned by the guards. I shall answer, while you must remain silent. It is vital that you do not appear surprised at anything I might say to them.”

After that we went on in silence. The main approach to the castle was a winding road crossing several moats. I expected we would stop at the first crossing, but apparently this Pretender was so overconfident, or so powerful, that he felt he could pare back on the castle’s defenses.

“Halt.” I almost didn’t recognize the command as speech, since it was delivered in much the same manner, tone and style as a champion at an Expectorant Exhibition Match might.

The speaker, a chain mail clad flunkie type, wasn't any great shakes in the looks department, either. His skin had a horrid grayish tinge, and clumps of his hair were coming out in a way that made me think of how the Curies died. Let's not even go into how he smelled.

When he slowly moved over to view us more closely, I felt like I was watching a marionette being operated by a man trying to do just barely too much.

A pike poked me in the small of my back. “We do not recognize this boy. What is the purpose of his coming?”

Fortunately, Alamsta had an answer ready for the gatekeeper, as well as an attempt at an ingratiating smile. “The master requested that I find a replacement for Tom, and this is he.”

The guard cocked his head to one side, as though he was trying to listen to someone speaking in the next room. Eventually, he said, “You may proceed to the Throne Room.”

Alamsta curtsied. Just as we were about to go on, the guard added, “Take him through the Trophy Rooms first.”

We went on, winding through a series of slightly offset gatehouses, each more formidable than the last, until we finally emerged into a large, open yard: the Inner Ward. Directly before us was the Keep, which I had once heard described as the very heart of a castle, and the part most associated with castles. It was like something out of Disney’s sweetest dreams, with spires, pinnaces, turrets, and arched walkways galore.

Facing us at the base of the keep was an obviously fresh addition, sticking out from the main building like nothing so much as a wart from a delicate and beautiful neck. Alamsta gestured to the crude door and said, “Behold, the Trophy Rooms. Prepare yourself for most disturbing sights, and stay close by me as we go through; not all of the trophies have been immobilized.” With these ominous words, the door swung open by itself, and we entered.

The first room held a magnificent collection of statuary, reminding me of a book I’d read on the British Museum. The second was a bestiary, filled with ill-kept animals that still managed to impress by their variety and peculiarity. Several looked like they represented what I’d thought were extinct species, and most of the specimens glared out at us in hostility. The final chamber had no roof, as it held a similarly excellent topiary.

Alamsta chose that moment to say, “He likes to call these chambers his Trophy Rooms; I think of them more as his Galleries of Victims.” At my startled look, she continued, “All of the statuary, the bestiary, and this topiary consist of people he has metamorphosed against their will into the forms you have seen. Mostly, he does this for the pleasure it gives him, though he makes a show out of it that the people may know his power, and fear him the more. Sometimes, he pretends that it is practice for him, a honing and fine-tuning of skills in which a master of the black arts must remain adept.”

With this somber thought in mind, not that I truly believed her at the time, of course, we walked out into the Ward again. A richly tiled walkway led us around to the equally impressive Grand Entrance to the Keep. The guards waved us past and we entered.

When I was nine, which was two years ago as of this writing, I went on a tour through the Winchester Mystery House in San Jose, California, as part of a vacation my family was on, and I would highly recommend the experience to anyone. The house is a twisting, confusing labyrinth of corridors and rooms that blend into each other over three stories, and maybe five acres per story, all ornately decorated in grand Victorian style.

The magnificent passageways we went through and up and over and across made the Mystery House, and even Hearst Castle, which we also visited, look like dollhouses.

Finally, we entered a cavernous room which, by its decor, could have been an upscale restaurant (like, with a suit-and-tie dress code and all), but was, in fact, the King’s Audience Chamber, or Throne Room. At least, that’s what the giant red silk banner hanging across the back wall called it.

Seated in a magnificent throne (funny, isn’t it, how stuff in this castle seems to make a habit of being magnificent?) was a man whose frame immediately brought to mind the old nursery rhyme about “The Crooked Man”. He was also nearly as thin as his friends the spooks had been, and even with his crookedness, he was taller than anyone else in the room, hulking guards included.

‘So this is the Pretender,’ I thought. ‘More like the Magician.’ He wore a robe covered in arcane symbols, some of which I recognized from my astronomy studies, which probably should have been frightening, but was far too cartoonish for me to fear.

His hands were disgustingly gnarled, the fingers bedecked in brightly jeweled rings. One twisted finger bent still more, beckoning us closer to him. Alamsta again preceded me, her head bowed low until she reached the foot of the throne, where she sank into a curtsey. Not quite being an idiot, I bowed low myself when I reached the throne.

“Fair Alamsta,” the Magician purred, his tones dripping with sleaze. “And what happy wind blew you and your friend into my presence when you should instead be seeing to your father?” The menace in his tone deepened with each word, yet somehow the sleaze remained.

“If the master will permit his servant to elucidate, the master will be pleased.” The utter servility in Alamsta’s voice sickened me.

The Magician half smiled. “I shall decide what pleases me, girl. Make your apology, and we shall see.”

“If the master will recall, his servant was also charged with replacing John’s son as her first duty on this day, and it has taken her all this time to find a varlet she hopes the master will find suitable.” I swear, her voice, tone and style were so totally altered that I had to keep myself from trying to find the ventriloquist so I could strangle him.

“I seem to recall some such charge.” The Magician glanced at his fingertips in a farce of fake casualness. “But who was John’s son?”

Alamsta turned green. “Does the master not remember the only other unbound attendant to the former king, until it pleased the master to transform him into a swine that his servant and the former king might dine off of his carcass?” Wait, what?

The Magician smiled. When some people smile, it lights up their face. When the Magician smiled, it made you wonder who was going to die. “I remember quite well. I merely wanted this boy to know the penalty for--what was it John’s son did wrong, Alamsta?”

Alamsta swallowed hard, as though to avoid throwing up. “He slipped on the blood coating the floor of the torture chamber and spilled water on the master’s third best robe.”

“Yes, clumsy fool. I should have done worse to him. Perhaps I should have done such as this to him.” His hands waved.

Pain unlike any I’d ever known seized me, blurring my vision and making me cry out and curl up into a ball. When it was over, I could tell something was wrong. Even bent over, the Magician and Alamsta shouldn’t have towered over me like they were. When I tried to ask what had happened, I found I couldn’t speak. Next, I attempted to bring my hands to my face, but when they reached my mouth, they felt twisted and wrong, and oddly... furry.

It was another moment before the awful truth sank in: the Magician had-- had turned me into-- I was-- A BUNNY! Fear as intense as the pain of the transformation suddenly coursed through my veins. I could feel my nose and ears twitching in distress, and my first instinct was to hop away from the monster looming over me, but the Magician waved another finger and I was held in place.

“I could feel your skepticism all the way at the gatehouse, boy,” the Magician hissed. “For nigh five centuries have I encountered your like; I knew you would never believe unless you were shown--and yet, this is the least of my powers.” His hideous smile as he said this also tends to reappear in my nightmares from time to time.

“O Dutiful Alamsta, now that the boy’s disbelief has been suspended, take our young friend back through my vic--er, Trophy Rooms and explain them to him fully. And use the service routes.” The Magician turned away. Our audience with him was over.

Alamsta, who throughout this had hidden her own fear much better than was possible for a bunny, picked me up and carried me from the room...

TO BE CONTINUED


	4. IV: In Which I Am Still a Bunny (Mostly)

Once we were out of the Throne Room, Alamsta found a linen closet and fixed up a sling so she could carry my bunny form more easily. Then, she took me down a series of honest-to-goodness fire poles, staggered so you only fell one story at a time, until we were at ground level again. None of the rooms or corridors we went through were shabby in any way, but the feeling of expulsion from paradise remained. We went through a series of one-way turnstiles and out a door that had no outer handle, and so came into the Ward again.

When you’re a bunny, things feel different than when you’re human. And, by the way, water’s kinda wet, too. But when Alamsta picked me up-- Now, this isn’t one of those stories like you’d find in one of the magazines Cousin Fred keeps next to his underwear, so don’t even go there, OK? It was more like the time when I was maybe four and we were leaving on a road trip in the middle of the night, so my dad carried me out to the car while I was asleep but I halfway woke up somewhere in the living room. It was more like that than anything else I can think of.

We went into the statuary first. Now, not anywhere near all of the statues were in human or even animal form. Many were model buildings or trees or other things. To each and every one, however Alamsta gave a name and a brief background, such as, “This is Rathanaraith, my father’s closest councilor and oldest friend. He always liked sailing.” She was pointing at a beautiful model trireme that could have borne the title, “the Ship of Theseus”.

It took a very long time just to go through the statuary, and none of the metamorphosed people had any bearing on the course of this tale, so I’ll only write down about one more group. We moved to a group of six animal statues: a tortoise, a peacock, an owl, a mouse, a fox, and a stork. I could feel Alamsta brace herself.

“These are my sisters.” Alamsta gestured at each statue as she named them. “Thetherimsta the Eldest, Matrenimsta the Fairest, Hietheromsta the Wisest, Palamsta the Kindest, Hieromsta the Smartest, and Narimsta the Youngest.”

After that, we went through the remainder of the rooms. The bestiary’s denizens were all household staff, while the topiary held groundskeepers. The Magician had quite a cruel sense of humor, as you have perhaps guessed.

Once we were finished, we went to another section of wall. “Open for Alamsta, that I may go about my duties,” Alamsta said. The wall swung open, rather reluctantly, revealing another narrow but well-kept passageway that led to a network of such passages, including both straight and spiral staircases, one of which Alamsta took.

After a few minutes more of navigating the corridors, we finally emerged into the Throne Room, where the Magician still lounged on the throne, rather insolently. Alamsta had mentioned in passing that the throne was a relic of Magnatharast the First King, who had first led the People to the Realm and safety. Then, we waited for him to “notice” us. And we waited. One thing was clear: the Magician had all the time in the world to mess with us. So we waited some more.

Finally, he purred, “Fair Alamsta,” just as he had when first we’d met, his tones still dripping with sleaze. “Has the bunny seen my trophies?”

“Yes, Master.” Alamsta’s voice was small and weak.

“Did you indulge in a little family reunion, as well?”

I finally realized something I should have seen before. Beneath all his power, the Magician was a true sadist at heart. If he sensed pain in another, he worked relentlessly to make it worse and worse.

“Yes, Master.” A tear trickled down her cheek.

The Magician’s grin grew so wide I wondered how his head stayed on. “And did you tell the bunny your sisters’ sobriquets?”

“Yes, Master.” A hint of pride returned to her voice.

“Did you tell him yours, the one the People of the Realm gave you not a year ago?”

“No, Master.” It was a gasp of surprise.

“Then tell him now.” Alamsta bit her lip. “Tell him! Tell him, and tell all of us, who you are.”

Alamsta hung her head low, her shoulders drooping. “I am Alamsta the Undistinguished.”

Mocking laughter erupted from the Magician, echoing through the room, every zombified guard joining in the hateful chorus. But eventually, it died away.

“Very good.” The Magician waved his hands at me again, and I returned to my natural form.

When they tell of transformations in fairy stories, they never mention just how painful the process is. I could feel my bones lengthening, my guts reshaping, my fur retracting, my skin stretching, my ears twisting back into human shape, and everything else. Sometimes I still have nightmares about the pain.

“Remember this, boy,” he continued, once I was no longer racked with pain. “I can see the darkest inclinations of your heart. I can twist your form as easily as I can twist my fingers--and I can do the same with your very soul. There is nothing you can do to resist my power. You are my servant, now until death.”

I had no doubt he could feel my impotent hatred; he would even without magical aid. But equally I was certain that he was no telepath, or Alamsta and I would be dead.

The Magician’s voice cut through my thoughts, saying in pompous, ringing tones, “Go, then boy. You have a former king to wait upon.” Then he turned away, dismissing us. The laughter began again as we left the Throne Room...

TO BE CONTINUED


	5. V: The Conscience of the King

The mocking laughter from the zombified court followed us as Alamsta led me to the chambers housing her royal father. I stammered out half a sentence--of apology? Sympathy? I’m not really sure--before Alamsta cut me off.

“I don’t want your pity, boy,” Alamsta said with an icy dignity. “I want my father and my sisters to be restored to me, and all of us in our rightful place in the Realm.” She walked on quite briskly, making me scramble to catch up before she could lose me in the labyrinth that was the Royal Castle.

The door to the king’s current chamber was guarded by two seven foot tall, three foot wide refrigerators with faces. OK, not literally; they were more zombies, though in that place refrigerators would have been par for the course. Alamsta was about to speak when, wordlessly and without looking at us at all, they opened the door for us.

The room looked like those efficiency apartments I’d seen for low income people: tiny, spartan, and depressing. By the marks on the walls, it had been converted from a closet of some sort to serve as the king’s room. “Father?” Alamsta murmured, drawing close to the still form occupying (almost overflowing) the tiny bed. “Father, I have brought him.”

The man in the bed looked at me, thanked Alamsta, his voice a series of wheezing gasps, and asked that she wait outside. “He will come soon, child. I would spare you that, so go now.” Frowning but without protest, Alamsta obeyed.

After a few moments of strained silence, the king was apparently about to attempt to embark on a long-winded speech when the door flew open and the Magician arrogantly pranced in, the interruption ironically probably saving the king’s life, with enough of his zombies following to make me wonder if he intended to recreate the stateroom scene from ‘A Night at the Opera’. If so, he needed a better act.

“Ah,” the Magician purred. “The new varlet is attending his king. Have his services been acceptable, Majesty?” Each word was more mocking than the last.

“Say what you mean to say, Pretender,” the king wheezed, “and then depart.”

For just a moment, anger darkened the Magician’s face when the king called him ‘Pretender’, but only for a moment. Then, closing his eyes, the Magician held his hands palms down over the king.

When the Magician began to chant, the king’s chest glowed a sickly, freaky green, a glow which then rose to fill the Magician’s palms. A look of pleasure filled the Magician’s face, as though the glow was revitalizing him. After a moment, the glow faded, and the Magician opened his eyes.

“You are a most stubborn man,” he observed while the king struggled for breath. “Each of these nightly visits has sucked away at least a year of your few remaining ones, but you still refuse to yield the Relics up to me. Know this: I will find the Medallion, with or without your aid.

“Do you know why I chose Alamsta to serve you?” the Magician mused to the recumbent king. “You see, in her pain and loneliness, in her mixture of arrogance yet humility, and in her burgeoning anger at life and the world for her suffering, she reminds me of why I first started down my road to ultimate power, a very long time ago now. Because of that, and her royal blood, she could be my greatest ally if she joined me in my plans. Now, of course, it must be of her own free will, but you’d be surprised at how easy it is to maneuver people into doing your will while thinking it’s their own idea. Perhaps if I offered her your ‘restoration’, she’ll--Well, no need to reveal all my cards yet.

“On the other hand,” he continued, “you could keep me from moulding her into my greatest minion with just a few simple words. Where have you hidden the Medallion?”

The King groaned in apparent torment, his eyes meeting mine for a moment before he replied, in the weakest voice I’d heard him use, “You shall have neither her nor the Medallion. Soon, and soon again, Our Protector shall come, and an end will be made of your usurpations!”

The Magician sneered. “So, Alamsta truly means nothing to you, then? I had hoped better of you, Majesty.” The last word came out like an epithet. “We shall see how much longer your foolish hope can stand against reality. And to sweeten the pot, no longer shall I steal your life, but those of your subjects.” Walking over to the nearest zombie, he drew a wicked looking dagger and sliced the zombie’s throat. The zombie gushed blood and fell to the floor.

“Each day shall bring another worthless death for which you shall be responsible. Consider that in your solitude, Majesty.” He stormed out of the bedchamber, his cloaks and robes trailing him like foul wisps of smoke. Wordlessly, his attendants followed after him, bearing the body of their slain comrade.

Once the door had closed, the king wheezed at me, “Pro--Pro--Protector--protect her--Protector--”

I went to his side. “How, Majesty?”

“Find--Me-me-medallion--Follow the guide.” With that, the king passed into unconsciousness.

“Guide?” I asked.

‘Come.’ I had never heard such a voice before. Without thinking, I turned toward it, but only a soft glow met my bewildered eyes.

‘Come.’ The glow started to drift away, and I went after it, passing through the castle’s warren again with only the glow to guide me. Soon, we had left the main wing behind and were headed up one of the turrets.

No guards roamed these corridors; in fact, I hadn’t seen any for some time. The glow beckoned again, and I followed...

TO BE CONTINUED


	6. VI: Assuming the Medallion

Now, where did I leave off? Oh, yes.

I was ascending the highest turret in the Royal Castle of the Realm, with a dazzling ball of light that glittered and twinkled and shone in every color at once impelling me onward. This wasn’t looking so wise of me, but I had to keep going.

So having gone from Oz and Wonderland right to the Pied Piper (now in full neon colors!), I followed the glowing light ball up the stairs to the final doorway at their top. The luminescent ball merged with the door, lighting it up like a Christmas tree or a theater marquee.

Just for a moment, I wondered what on Earth I was doing. From within the room, a voice seemed to answer my thought by whispering into my mind, ‘Well, was it not your wish that you should be a hero in a fairy story? If you desire, you may give in to your fears and leave now, but if you truly want to be a hero, step inside this room and meet your fate.’

OK, there was no way I was chickening out after that. I grabbed the door handle and gently pushed, the door swinging open as silently as you please.

The room beyond was obviously older than the rest of the Castle, despite its position atop the tower, and also nearly untouched by the passage of time. The walls were shielded with cloths that came together at the ceiling, forming a hexagonal tent in which most of the space was occupied by shelves for books, loose scraps of paper, scrolls, and even a tablet or two of some indeterminate material. In the midst of it all, though, stood the case holding the Medallion. I made my way through the maze of cabinetry to the softly glowing stand that held the case. With a deep breath, I reached for the case’s latch.

A very familiar basso profundo spoke. ‘The Power of the Medallion is the Power of Shielding, of Curing, and of Healing. It can only be borne by one who intends all three.’ Not only was this the voice that had said something similar about the Sword, but it was also the voice I’d heard chanting in the whirling void when I first entered this world.

I turned to face the speaker, a spectral presence seated at a small writing desk opposite the case. “What kind of spirit creature are you, exactly?” Blast it, even here I was still talking like some hoity-toity little snob. I made a mental note to make that my next question.

‘I am no spirit; I am a Vision. You see me before you when in fact I am at peace with my fathers and my sons; just as what you hear as what you term namby-pamby turns of phrase are, in fact, phrases rendered from another language than yours entirely, where such turns of phrase as they are actually inherent to our speech.’

While I, despite all of the insanities that I’d personally seen, heard and experienced here, still took everything with at least a grain of salt, that last part of his speech actually explained quite a bit, if he wasn’t conning me, like why he didn’t know using the same word so often in a passage was a big semantic no-no.

Again, the spectral vision seemed to read my thoughts. ‘I was the First Protector! It was through my character that the heritage of unimpeachable integrity was first promulgated! I will not have that honor impugned by an untried whelpling who has yet to face his first challenge!’

“And I know this to be true how?” I managed to say through the icy wind that his words blew across me. “For all that I know, your evil could outmatch that of the coprolith in human form downstairs, with me your unwitting pawn to set you in his place!”

‘I would have you ask the Princess Alamsta, then.’ The apparition folded its arms. ‘She has earned your trust, I should hope.’

Strangely enough, I could feel its sincerity, at least about consulting with Alamsta. That sincerity decided me. “All right. What am I supposed to do, then?”

The vision held out the Sword. ‘Grasp the blade with your right hand.’

I did, and burning pain shot all the way up my arm.

‘Will you pledge true, loyal and faithful service to the rightful rulers of the Realm: all those past, the one true present, and all those yet to come?’

“I will,” I gasped. The pain was doing funny things to my breathing.

‘Will you pledge your goods, your self, and even your life to the safety of the Realm?’

“I will.” Ow ow OW ow ow.

‘Will you swear to hold no other earthly vows or allegiances higher than those you make this day?’

Huh. “I will.” The pain was lessening.

‘Will you swear to uphold the honor of the Line of Protectors against all challenges, no matter the source?’

“I will,” I grunted. Yes, definitely the pain had diminished.

‘So it is attested, by blade and by blood, that you are now a true Protector of the Realm, bearer of all of the rights and privileges associated therewith, but holder and executor of all duties and debts associated thereunto. Arise, Young Protector, and see that you do not falter in your investiture.’

At some point during all that, I’d dropped to my knees, but now I stood and repeated the question that had started it all. “So what shall I do now?”

The specter looked grim. ‘Now, Young Protector, take the Medallion, go forth from here and confront the Magician. The Medallion will guide you in what you should do thereafter.’

I nodded. As it faded from view, it added, ‘We shall see each other again, Young Protector. I wish you success against the Evil One.’

I don’t remember actually donning the Medallion; what I remember next is turning back to the door and heading for the Throne Room, determined that the Pretender’s false reign of terror was about to end. The Magician’s final show was at hand.

TO BE CONTINUED


	7. VII: Mister Whizzbang

I came down from the tower, the Medallion glowing against my shirt, filled with the fervor of a thousand Protectors past, present and future, and doom was in my wake. No Magician could stand against the powers the Medallion signified; the more evil the enemy, the greater the defeat that enemy would suffer, and the more quickly and humiliatingly it would happen.

My route to the Throne Room and the Pretender’s ultimate defeat deliberately wound hither and yon through the Royal Castle. As I passed various guards or servants, the Medallion flashed, the aura of zombification fell from them, and they fell in to follow behind me, an ever-strengthening army for the Realm against the madman who had enslaved them.

From that highest tower room to the lowest basement did my procession pass, always gaining strength. I was not really ‘in charge’ of my own actions at this point; I had yielded that to the power flowing through the Medallion, and had to hope that what the First Protector had told me about it was true.

Finally, our throng reached the Throne Room, in numbers great enough that even that vast space was quickly full, to a man, it seemed, singing the ancient ‘Lay of the Protector’ (which is a song traditionally sung by a Protector about to go into battle), only with ‘we’ or an appropriate variant in place of ‘I’ or its grammatical equivalent.

Hatred, dismay, surprise and fear all mingled into an expression that had to be seen to be truly appreciated on the Magician’s face when he finally looked up at the army confronting him. Yet no sign of surrender showed from him, even when I faced him down, glare for glare, the Medallion blazing like a beacon of hope from its resting place on my chest. The Magician had staked everything on his course, and would follow it through to the end, or even further. But duty to form required that what we both knew should be stated openly, instead of kept implicit, and so I finally spoke out.

“Hear me, O Magician,” I said, the Medallion turning up the reverb on my voice until it seemed to shake the room, or even the whole castle on its foundations. “Your usurpation is at an end; the rightful king is restored to his throne. However, for the sake of the grace we have been given, we shall allow you to live on, in exile from this Realm, should you so choose. The only alternative for you is Death.”

“Then let it be Death: not for me, but for my enemies!” Closing his eyes, he thrust out one hand with its fingers horribly bent and said a few nonsense words. The Medallion flashed purple, the violet burst jolting the host back from the Magician. A Zone of Warding now blanketed the room and all within it who were on the side of angels.

A red tint covered the Magician as the powers he called upon gathered themselves for battle. So, the lines had been drawn at last, and the forces of light, hope and life were about to stand fast against the final assault of the powers of darkness, death, and despair.

In my mind’s eye, a vision suddenly appeared of the whole company dying gruesomely all around me, but I could see that reality was unaltered. The Medallion had shown me what the Magician’s spell was meant to do, and what he obviously thought it had done.

The Magician smiled smugly, a chuckle escaping him, but when his eyes opened, they nearly popped from his head. Our throng simply stared back in silent witness to his impotence, words seeming unnecessary for the moment. He immediately closed his eyes again, waving his arms rhythmically as he chanted another charm intended to wipe us all out. 

Again, the Medallion’s Zone of Warding was sound against the spell, and again, a vision of what was intended for the spell to perform played out in gruesome detail in my mind. Yeah, I won’t be going into any of them at all from here on out. Seriously.

Dancing, singing, even cutting himself, the Magician sent out spell after spell, his countenance terrible in his increasing frenzy. Each spell he sent out was more potent than the last, but all proved futile against the Zone emanated by the Medallion; and with each failure, you could see the Magician’s wrath and frustration ratchet up another notch.

For the moment, we had ourselves a stalemate here, but I knew it couldn’t last: either the Magician or the guards would eventually resort to a physical attack, and then, something would have to give somewhere. Probably, it would be the Magician who made the move: never discount the intimidation factor when you’ve been under someone’s domination, even if you’re in a large group of your fellows.

Now came the worst of the assault. The Magician, as I mentioned earlier, wielded the powers of darkness, death, and despair. Darkness had failed. Death had been turned back. Despair was about to make its final effort.

We only caught the merest echo of what was intended, but even that had my knees a-tremble and my heart quailing. Yet the Zone somehow held fast, its light of hope outshining the despair that would have it fade into oblivion.

For a moment, the whole company stood frozen in the remnants of the last assault. The Magician would have to make his move now, while we were still off-balance. I could feel it in my bones.

Now, ‘classically’ a spell-caster is supposed to disdain the physical, sometimes to the extreme, like the gurus of Tibet, but the Magician showed no signs of that. Rather the opposite, in fact; there was something about him that hinted at a whip-cord toughness to him. No, there would be no distaste for physical force there.

Quick as a striking cobra, the Magician snatched a weapon from one of the guards and ran at me...

TO BE CONTINUED


	8. VIII: Picking Up the Pieces

The Magician charged me with the pike he’d snatched from one of the guards. After all, were I to die, the Medallion could no longer act, could it? Even I wasn’t sure; the First Protector hadn’t mentioned anything about that. But I intended that the situation would not arise; not today, at any rate.

I waited until the very last tenth of a second before dodging aside, and the Magician wound up impaling himself on the pike borne by the guard behind me, rather than impaling me. Not the brightest move on his part, I’ll admit.

It kind of took a moment for it to sink in that, for all his malevolent vitality and evil vigor, the Magician wasn’t going to be getting back up; not now, not ever. He was, to put it bluntly, quite as dead as a door-nail. My memory spun through the opening passage of Dickens’ ‘A Christmas Carol’ as my brain tried to take the fact in.

I'd never seen anyone actually die before, and especially not in an up close and personal manner like this was. My guts twisted most unpleasantly, and I looked away. No more Magician. That was supposed to be a good thing, right? My gaze flitted from face to face in the array of de-zombified people before me, and I saw only understanding and relief, which eased my mind a bit.

When I looked back, the Magician's body had vanished, leaving only his robes as a symbol of his evil. “Take those up and burn them,” I said, “but do not let them touch your flesh. Then make a separate pyre for the clothes you are wearing, and the carpet, and any other such that has been sullied by the Pretender’s filth.”

My final trip through the Pretender's Gallery of Victims was a triumphal parade of restorations and joyous reunions, but none more so than when Alamsta was reunited with her sisters. Many tears were shed then, on both sides.

After it was all finished, I returned to the Throne Room and bowed before the king. When last I’d seen him, he’d been a wreck of a man, barely holding on under the Magician’s assaults on his vitality. Now, he was every inch the King of the Realm, rightfully enthroned on the newly cleansed seat of his fathers. “Hail, Alamanast, Twelfth of that Name.”

He regarded me with regal dignity. “Hail, Young Protector.” He was about to embark on a long speech of congratulation and thanks, but the room dimmed, and his voice simply faded from my ears.

I looked up. The world had suddenly turned gray and wobbly, just it had when I was first brought to the Realm. This time, I kept my eyes open, willing my gorge to remain in place throughout the dizzying visions.

The form of a seated man faded into view, and soon, the First Protector looked back at me, his eyes knowing. ‘So, you have come through the test and been Proved, as I expected you would.’

A thousand-question pile-up blocked my tongue from uttering anything, but again, the First Protector seemed to read my thoughts.

‘Each and every Protector must first face a Test after their Investment, and when they pass, they are considered Proved, and true until death. This was your Test, Young Protector.’

“Is everyone going to keep calling me that?” I asked aloud. That could get annoying pretty quickly.

‘You would prefer that we used your real name?’ Was there just a hint of laughter in his dry tones there?

“Ah, no.” I hate my name. I try not to use it at all, ever. The only time I’ll put it in print is on legal documents or as a signature, and even on the signature, I try to make it as incomprehensible as possible. So, I’ll learn to live with being the Young Protector. I wonder if they’ll still call me that when I’m 87.

The First Protector spoke again. ‘The Power of the Coin is that of Gaining Aid, from what source as may be acceptable to the Sword and the Medallion. Now that you have been Proved, you will be Sent For again, often when you least expect it. Go now, and resume your life as you were living it, Young Protector.’

The Coin wobbled to a stop on the Garage floor. I was back in normalcy. It felt odd, like being cast out from Paradise, but it was a relief as well. There would be no Magicians, spooks or even sporks for me to fight here.

The memory of my part in the Magician's death just haunted me all the way back home, keeping me unusually quiet for the rest of the day. I guess my Dad could tell that something was wrong, because when we got home, he hounded me about it until I told him everything.

Again, I’m pretty sure he didn’t believe me, though he didn’t say anything one way or the other on the matter. When I asked him about my killing the Magician, however, he sighed and told me, “Boy, ending a life is a terrible thing, but when a man’s trying to murder you, you do what you have to do, regardless.” Then he smiled mirthlessly. “Besides, somebody dumb enough to fall for the old bull-fighter trick when they’re bull-rushing you deserves what they get."

That was when he suggested that I write it all down, and here is where it ends. I think it actually did help, as a cathartic measure, so if anything else happens like the First Protector said would happen, I’ll set it down right after this.

THUS ENDS

The Undesired Princess & the Enchanted Bunny

Being the First Tale of the Coin, the Sword and the Medallion

THE STORY CONTINUES WITH

The Contest

Being the Second Tale of the Coin, the Sword and the Medallion


End file.
